MONSTER
HIGH
Where There’s a Wolf, There’s a Way A novel by
Lisi Harrison Little, Brown and Company New York Boston
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Copyright © 2011 by Mattel, Inc. All Rights Reserved. MONSTER HIGH and associated trademarks are owned by and used under license from Mattel, Inc. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher. Poppy Hachette Book Group 237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017 For more of your favorite series, visit our website at www.pickapoppy.com Poppy is an imprint of Little, Brown and Company. The Poppy name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher. First Edition: September 2011 The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. ISBN 978-0-316-09919-6 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 RRD‑C Printed in the United States of America
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CHAPTER ONE
ON THE L.A.M.B.
The moon — a delicately arched crescent — was weeks away from being full. It was not time to hide. She was not transforming. Her monthly battle with rapid hair growth, insatiable hunger, and extreme irritability was not the issue. Still, Clawdeen Wolf was in a dark ravine, running for her life. “Slow down!” she barked at the five athletic J.Crew catalog– worthy guys who formed a protective rhombus around her as they charged, panting, through the woods. Their mud-stained construction boots pounded the t wig-covered earth with tireless determination. Not a minute passed without one of them vowing to keep Clawdeen safe, pledging to sacrifice his life for hers. It would have been extremely sweet — romantic, even — if they were contestants on The Bachelorette. But since they were her brothers, it was getting super annoying. “My feet are killing me!” she groaned between breaths.
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Howldon, aka Don, the oldest triplet by sixty-eight seconds, peered over his shoulder and looked down, fixing his orange- brown eyes on Clawdeen’s pointy-toed gold ankle boots. “I’d kill you too if you stuffed me into those things.” He turned to face the thicket ahead. “It’s like the shoemaker only made room for one toe.” Howie, the middle triplet, snickered. If Howleen, or Leena, the youngest triplet, had been there, she would have seen Don’s insult and doubled it. Leena—whose nickname rhymed with mean‑a for a reason—had boot issues of her own, thanks to Arrowhead Boot Camp. While Clawdeen suffered from blisters, Leena’s pain came from a drill sergeant, five am whistles, and group meetings about anger management. Ahhhh . . . just thinking about her certifiable sister’s yearlong sentence brought relief. “They didn’t come from a shoemaker!” Clawdeen practically spit. “They were designed by L.A.M.B.” “Is that why you’re running so baaaaaaaad?” joked Clawnor from the back. His nickname was Nino because he tended to be “windy,” like El Niño. The Wolf brothers laughed. “What’s your excuse?” Clawdeen wanted to ask. But she already knew. Her sensitive canine ears heard the curses Nino muttered every time he ran into a branch. Now thirteen, her youngest brother’s fur was coming in fast. Nino’s bushy brows, sideburns, and tangles of black hair undulated in front of his dark eyes like sea grass. It was nothing a bobby pin or styling products couldn’t fix, but Nino refused. He
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had waited all his life for big-boy fur and wasn’t about to let a few thwacks in the face bully him back to baldness. “Owie,” Clawdeen whimpered. The sting of a heel rubbed raw slowed her sprint to a gallop. Is it hard to get blood out of leather? If only Lala were here. She’d know. But none of her friends were around. That was the problem . . . well, one of them. “Keep moving, Clawdeen,” Rocks insisted, grabbing her wrist to pull her along. Leaves and long shadows blurred into bands of darkness. “We’re almost there.” “This is so stupid.” She limp-ran, holding up her purple halter dress. “We don’t even know if anyone is chasing us and —” “No, what’s stupid is a girl running in lamb’s boots,” he snapped. “They were obviously made for hooves, not toes.” The boys howled with laughter. Clawdeen might have chuckled too if her feet weren’t throbbing like techno. Instead, Rocks’s insane remark became an excuse to stop running and glare at him. Born Howlmilton, Clawdeen’s younger brother got his nickname because of his dumb‑as‑rocks comments. But what he lacked in smarts, he made up for in speed — record-breaking, jowl-dropping, thirty-five-miles-per-hour speed. All he had to do to stay on the school track team — and retain his star status — was get straight Ds. Which he did, making the family’s fastest member also the slowest. “Keep moving!” Howie barked as the others forged ahead. They took a lot of crap from the other RADs for their birth
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names. But deep down, they had similar objections. Because, seriously, what had their parents been thinking? It’s not like all normie kids were named Norman, Norma, Normandy, or Normiena. So why the need to force Howl and Claw on the Wolf kids? Being a girl with a hairy neck was embarrassing enough. Couldn’t her parents have at least tried to make life less mortifying? Rocks smacked Clawdeen’s butt playfully. “Giddyup, lamb.” Growling, she started limping forward again, silently cursing the day for not turning out the way it was supposed to. Thursday, October fourteenth, I curse you! You tricked me! From now on, my year has three hundred sixty-four days. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. The itinerary had been solid. After school and a rigorous body wax, she, Lala, and Blue would take a limo to the Oregon sand dunes. There, they would meet up with Cleo and the accessories editor for Teen Vogue. First, a team of hair and makeup artists would glam Clawdeen, Blue, and Cleo into models. Under Lala’s direction, stylists would adorn them in priceless jewels exhumed from Cleo’s aunt’s tomb. Next, the famed photographer Kolin VanVerbeentengarden would photograph them on camels for a fashion editorial layout on Cairo couture. After a toast to their futures in fashion, they would sneak tiny sips of champagne — aka “model water” — then limo back to Salem. The next day would be spent delighting their classmates with enviable anecdotes from the set. Months later, their exotic beauty would be available on newsstands everywhere — printed on high-gloss paper and bound by Condé Nast. But the trio had never even made it to the sand dunes. They
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never got glammed. They never sipped model water. And they would never be printed on high gloss. Rue you, October fourteenth! During the ride down, she, Lala, and Blue were searching the limo’s flat screen for TMZ when they happened upon a special called “The Ghoul Next Door.” It featured all three of them, plus Clawdeen’s brother Clawd and many of their RAD friends. The never-before-seen glimpse into the secret lives of Salem’s monsters was supposed to air only if their faces were blurred, homes obscured, and names omitted. But there it was, clear as Crystal Light. In high def, no less. Not a single blur. Not a single black box. Their true identities — identities the RADs had struggled to keep hidden for generations — were broadcast all over town. Now, instead of celebrating at a wrap party, she was under wraps, limp-running all the way to the Wolf family’s hideout. Thursday the fourteenth is the new Friday the thirteenth! Their faces were sure to be on the Internet and the AP wire by now. And the worst part? Cleo de Nile, Clawdeen’s ex–best friend, must have had something to do with it. Because if proof really was in the pudding, this was one lumpy dessert. Lump 1: Frankie Stein had played a big role in producing “The Ghoul Next Door,” earning her major popularity points with the RADs. Cleo’s queen bee status was threatened, so she was determined to take Frankie down. Lump 2: Cleo had turned her back on the RADs and become overnight besties with Bekka Madden, a normie who was out to destroy Frankie Stein for stealing her man.
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Lump 3: Cleo had refused to be in “The Ghoul Next Door,” proving she knew it would expose the RADs. It was hard to imagine Cleo jeopardizing the entire RAD community. But as Clawdeen’s mother always said, “People do unimaginable things when they’re insecure. Look at Heidi Pratts.” Clawdeen got squirmy when her trying‑to‑be‑hip mother referenced pop culture — especially when she got celebrities’ names wrong. But Harriet was right: Cleo’s insecurities, like Heidi’s, had driven her toward the unimaginable. Still, how could she? Clawdeen began picking up speed, trying to outrun her rage. Popped-blister pain was minor compared to the sting of a stab in the back. Her high heels were sinking into the soft earth, and her C cups were in a turbulent state. Pumas and a sports bra would have made a world of difference, but she had been forced into exile the moment she stepped out of the limo. By then the show had already aired, and the RADs were fleeing. “Couldn’t we have packed a bag or two, at least?” Clawdeen asked, risking a mouthful of mosquitoes. “Couldn’t you have not gone on TV?” Don fired back. The honor roll student did make a good point, as usual. “I didn’t know we were being set up!” “You should have,” he grumbled. “Clawd did it too,” Clawdeen added without guilt. Don would never get mad at Clawd—he was the oldest. “I did it to watch over you,” he said breathlessly. A star football player, he was better at short sprints than long distances. “To make sure it wasn’t a trap.”
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“And how did that work out?” Howie teased. Clawd smacked him playfully on the arm. Howie smacked him back. Clawdeen missed her girls already. No more gossip sessions, ab‑grabbing laughter, clothing swaps, hair-streaking sleepovers, n ail-art contests, or professional waxes at the spa. She pumped her fists and ran faster. Every twig that snapped beneath Clawdeen’s boots was a closed-minded normie. Ban‑ ished from our homes. No more Internet. No more television. No more jogging along the river to Blue’s bonzer playlists. Forced into hiding. Living in fear. Clawdeen ran harder. Snap. Snap. Snap. Birds took off in flaps of panic. Rodents dipped back into their holes. Leaves rustled. The clearing was visible now. Their mother, Harriet, would be there, anxious to guide them to safety. “Maybe we should grab Mom and go back home,” Clawdeen tried. “Maybe it’s time we stood up for ourselves instead of being afraid —” “We’re not afraid,” Howie insisted. “Dad put us in charge of keeping you and Mom safe while he’s away, that’s all.” Clawdeen rolled her eyes. It was the same story day after day. The boys were supposed to protect the girls. But this girl didn’t want protection. She wanted to go back home and confront Cleo. She wanted to check the mail and see if anyone had RSVP’d to her Sassy Sixteen (because what sixteen-year-old wants to be sweet?). She wanted to take a long, hot shower. “You guys stay with Mom, and I’ll go back,” she pressed.
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“No. We’re a pack,” Clawd said, “and —” “Packs stay together,” they all finished, in a mocking tone. “Keep going. We’re almost there,” Clawd instructed. Clawdeen bit her bottom lip and did what she was told. But her tolerance for being babied was wearing as thin as her socks. Forget about protecting her — what about their home? Their individual rights? Their freedom? Those needed protection way more than she did. Harriet’s athletic silhouette became visible in the distance. As usual, she waved her kids forward, silently urging them to hurry. Going through the motions, Clawdeen picked up her pace, but the flight instinct had yet to kick in. Instead, she wanted to dig in her high heels and fight. And why shouldn’t she? She was just weeks away from her sixteenth birthday, too old to follow the pack. It was time to take control of her life, to show her family that she was more than just another shiny coat. It was time for this Wolf and her L.A.M.B.s to stray.
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CHAPTER TWO
Fright or Flight
Drained and aching from what seemed like hours of sprinting and hiding behind trees, cars, and lampposts, Frankie flopped onto a stone couch in the RADs’ underground hideout and surrendered to the weight of her eyelids. As usual, the lair smelled like popcorn and moist earth. The carousel overhead stopped circling at sundown, but familiar voices still swirled all around her. She was not the first to arrive. Were her parents there? Had they made it safely? Was Brett really to blame for this? Frankie tried not to think about him or she’d spark. And she couldn’t spark. She needed to preserve every last drop of energy in case she had to run again. Her fingers flopped against the tattered hem of her matronly peasant skirt. It felt frayed and muddy — definitely no longer wearable. She grinned weakly. At least some good had come of this.
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“You okay?” Frankie heard a familiar male voice and smelled orange Starburst. She forced her eyes open. No one was there. “Billy?” He unhooked a strand of black hair from Frankie’s lashes and gently tucked it behind her ear. “Yeah,” he said softly. She struggled to sit up. Her invisible friend gripped her shoulder and eased her back down. “Rest.” Police sirens wailed aboveground. The room became noticeably quieter until they passed. “I need to apologize,” she managed to mumble. “No one blames you.” Frankie sighed with doubt. “It’s true. You did everything you could to protect us. Everyone knows that. Brett had all of us fooled. Not just you . . .” Billy kept talking. Going on and on about how Brett was the wrong guy for her. How he had used her to further his film career. How she never should have trusted a normie who wears monster-movie tees. Frankie nodded in agreement to show Billy she was just as outraged. But if she were being honest, she would have told him that when Brett gave Channel Two the unblurred interviews, he did more than just break her trust. He broke her heart. The underground lair began filling with the usual, albeit panic- stricken, RADs. Too nervous to sit on the stone club chairs, they paced. Their jittery movements blocked and then unblocked the lanterns that hung from ceiling hooks, creating a dizzying strobe effect. Jackson chewed his bottom lip while his mini fan blew the floppy bangs off his forehead. Beside him Blue peeled off her fingerless gloves and began slathering her scaly skin with Burt’s
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Bees moisturizer. Deuce removed his green beanie so the snakes on his head could uncoil and stretch. Lala, looking even paler than usual, closed her ruby-red parasol and quickly joined their tight cluster. Julia greeted them with her endearing zombielike stare behind her cat-eye glasses. Ordinarily, bubbly conversation would fizz from their circle and overflow into the room like shaken soda. But tonight conversation was flat. Instead of giggly gossip, they exchanged what‑do‑ we‑do‑now? glances set to a symphony of nail-biting, toe taps, and muffled sobs. Billy tugged Frankie’s finger. “Let’s say hi.” “You go,” she said, too embarrassed to face her friends. Not because her mission to liberate the RADs had failed, but because she really liked Brett and had led everyone to believe he liked her too. Billy squeezed her hand before letting go. “Okay, be right back.” Allowing her eyes to close again, Frankie heard familiar voices wash over her like waves of electricity. “Who figahd Brett was such a bounce?” Blue said, her Australian accent thicker than usual. “I had him sussed for a real mate.” “Well, thanks to that ‘bounce,’ I have to go back to Greece,” Deuce muttered. “For how long?” Billy asked. “Dunno. Long enough for the coach to kick me off the basketball team.” “Does Cleo know yet?” Lala asked. The sudden knick-knock knick-knock of wooden heels and a waft of amber perfume kept Deuce from answering.
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“Heyyyy,” Cleo trilled, with meeting‑up‑for-lattes flippancy. “Coooool haaaiiir,” Julia droned, noticing Cleo’s camera- ready do. The zombie was oblivious to the mounting tension. Frankie wanted to peek, but opening her eyes had become impossible. She felt as if a dozen chandelier earrings were dangling off her lashes. “Thanks! I just came from the Teen Vogue shoot,” Cleo announced. She paused for a second and then asked, “What’s wrong with Frankie?” “She just needs some sleep,” Billy insisted. “She’ll be fine.” “Really? ’Cause she looks a little green, if you ask me.” Cleo giggled. Frankie’s fingertips warmed but didn’t spark. If she had a single watt of energy left, she would mummy-wrap the royal rhymes- with-stitch so tight that her fake lashes would pop off. What is she doing here, anyway? She wasn’t even in the video. “What do you want?” Lala asked. “I came to clear my name,” Cleo said, her tone downshifting to serious. “Where’s Clawdeen?” “No one knows.” Billy sighed. “She’s not answering her phone.” “Anyway, don’t you mean apologize?” Jackson seethed. “Cleo apologize?” Deuce scoffed. “That’ll never happen.” “Exactly, Deucey, because I didn’t do anything.” “Rubbish!” Blue snapped. “You ruined our lives to impress your new bestie —” “Ka!” Cleo stamped her wooden heel. “Bekka Madden is not my bestie!” “Well, she should be, because we’re done,” Blue replied.
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“Will you let me finish?” Cleo asked, hands on hips. They were silent. “I admit, I was bitter because you chose the movie over my Teen Vogue shoot,” Cleo began. “I teamed up with Bekka to erase the video from Brett’s computer so it wouldn’t air. Not cool, I know. All I wanted was to model with my best friends, so, technically, my heart was in the right place.” Julia hummed in approval. “But why team up with Bekka?” asked Lala. “She knew Brett’s passwords.” “Why didn’t she want the movie to air?” asked Jackson. “Who cares? She had her reasons, but those were mine, okay?” Frankie’s fingertips burned like cheeks blushing. She was Bekka’s reason. “Anyway, when I heard Channel Two wasn’t going to show the video because of the blurs, I thought everything was golden,” Cleo continued. “You guys could model, and I could stop hanging out with Bekka and that pain in the Aswan, Haylee. I had no idea they were going to put it on TV uncensored. I had nothing to do with that! Swearsies on Ra. I was in the Oregon sand dunes fighting for my life in a camel stampede while this was going down. If Melody hadn’t filled me in, I never —” “How is Melody? Has anyone talked to her?” Jackson interrupted. “My paranoid mother took my phone.” “Hey, wanna hear something freaky?” Cleo leaned in, ready to dish about the new normie. “Did you know that when she sings —” Blue cut her off. “Oh, quit your earbashing and stick to the point. Did you throw us under the trolley or not?”
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Frankie wished she could have seen Cleo’s face. No one ever spoke to the royal highness like that. “Bekka acted alone,” Cleo insisted. “The only thing I did wrong was choose a photo shoot over the cause. That’s it. I would never put any of you in danger. Not even for Teen Vogue. Crown my heart and hope to rot in my tomb.” She paused. “Any questions?” No one said a word. Instead, Frankie heard kissy sounds and all‑is‑forgiven hug purrs. “Cooooooool haaaiiir,” Julia droned for the second time. Cleo giggled. “Thanks, Ghoules.” Wait! I have a question, Frankie thought. When you said, “Bekka acted alone,” did you mean alone without you or alone without Brett? Is Brett innocent? Is — ouch! Tight. Bolt cramp. Ahhhhhhhh . . . Frankie’s body began to hum. W hite-hot currents zipped along her spine and energized her limbs. Her fingers twitched. Her toes wiggled. Her eyes shot open. Is this how normies feel when they eat sugar? Her father was leaning over her and squinting intensely, as if trying to read her thoughts. “How’s Daddy’s perfect little girl?” Frankie nodded slowly and sat up. Her mother’s warm hands supported her back. “We were so worried about you,” Viktor said. “If Billy hadn’t told us where you were . . .” “Frankie, another five minutes and you would have been out,” Viveka explained. “Memory loss, coma . . .” She shook the horrible thoughts from her mind.
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“Here,” Viktor said proudly. A black quilted handbag with bloodred straps dangled from his index finger. “It’s for you.” Confused, Frankie looked back at her mother. The bag was voltage, but it was an odd time for gifts. “Go on.” Viveka smiled. “Take it.” The lair was teeming with parents racing to embrace their children. “It’s a portable amp machine,” Viktor explained. “Keep it close to your body and you’ll stay charged.” “We modeled it after a Chanel,” Viveka whispered triumphantly. Frankie turned the bag around in her hands. It buzzed life. The straps were studded with miniature neck bolts, and the interior had more pockets than her Joie cargoes. She instantly transferred her iPhone 4, black-and-green Harajuku Lovers wallet, rhinestone compact, Fierce & Flawless makeup case, pink Lady Gaga key chain, and bag of assorted saltwater taffy from her now-passé silver backpack. Everything fit beautifully. “I adore it with my entire heart space!” Frankie beamed, pulling her parents into a gigantic thank-you hug. They smelled like chemicals and gardenias — a scent she had come to associate with love. “A rather unusual time for cutesy adolescent expressions and hugs, wouldn’t you agree?” A male voice, deep and melodic, suddenly filled the room. The Steins pulled apart to find a giant monitor lowering from the ceiling. It stopped in the center of the crowded room and hovered ten feet above the stone floor. The RADs quickly stopped commiserating and focused on the screen, which showed a
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distinguished man seated under a giant sun umbrella. Wearing mirrored Carrera sunglasses and a gold satin robe, he had a seven-layer tan and slicked-back hair that was stiff with comb tracks. The shot revealed very little about his location, other than the polished wood railing of a yacht. Jay‑Z blared in the background. Women giggled. Champagne flutes clinked. “Forgive us, Mr. D,” Viktor said, approaching the screen. “We were just so happy to see that Frankie was safe and —” Folding his arms across his smooth chest, the man on the monitor shook his head disapprovingly. “Sorry,” Viktor stated humbly. Three women click-clacked by on-screen wearing heels and the kind of cutout one-pieces that left Mondrian-esque tan lines. Their long pink fingernails raked along the back of Mr. D’s neck as they passed. Embarrassed, Lala buried her face in her palms. Frankie broke away from her mother and inched toward her friends. “How’d he get so bronzed?” Cleo asked Lala. “Thirty hours straight in a tanning bed,” she whispered back. “I hate those things,” Frankie interjected, remembering her mortifying electrical surge at the spa. “I felt like I was in a coffin.” Cleo and Lala giggled. “Um, something tells me he’s okay with that,” Cleo added. They giggled again. Missing the joke, Frankie turned away and whispered into Blue’s beach-blond curls, “Who is this guy?” “Lala’s pop,” Blue whispered back. “He’s the boomer.”
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“The what?” “The male kangaroo,” Blue said. Frankie knit her brows. “The boss!” “Oh.” “Cunning as a dunny rat, he is,” Blue continued. “And quite grouse with the sheilas, if you know what I mean.” Frankie nodded like she did. Mr. D cleared his throat. “I’ll save the scolding for another time. I suppose being forced out of your homes is punishment enough for now. Am I right?” Several parents lowered their heads in shame. Some sniffed back tears. Frankie backed up and hid behind Deuce, just in case Mr. D started looking for a scapegoat. But he didn’t seem concerned with blame. Thankfully, no one did. Blame was a luxury they could no longer afford. “I’ve made the necessary arrangements,” he stated. “My brother Vlad will collect your phones and identification. I have arranged for new mobile devices, phone numbers, and IDs for everyone so you can no longer be traced.” Lala’s uncle Vlad appeared before Frankie holding open a giant black sack. No taller than five feet, with a mop of gray hair, round tortoiseshell glasses, and a black-and-white formfitting striped tee, he looked like a Happy Meal–sized Andy Warhol. “Trick or treat,” he said, the tips of his Crest Whitestripped fangs poking his pillowy bottom lip. Fingers sparking, Frankie searched the crowd for signs of Billy. Her phone had been a gift from him. She couldn’t just —
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“It’s okay,” Billy said, as if reading her mind. “I won’t take it personally.” Uncle Vlad cocked his head and raised his light eyebrows in a let’s go! sort of way. Frankie reached inside her new bag and gripped her phone. Like a happy puppy greeting its master, the phone charged from her touch. Oh, how they would miss each other. “Vite, vite!” urged Uncle Vlad. Frankie released the phone into the dark sack. “Wallet too, Sparky.” Not one for being bullied, Frankie considered zapping his pearly fangs into candy corns. But now was not the time to draw attention to herself. Instead, she pulled out her Merston High ID and dropped it into the bag. “The wallet stays with me,” she insisted. “Meowww,” Uncle Vlad mewed. “Feisty Stein has spoken.” Frankie smirked at the nickname; she took it as a compliment. He winked like maybe it was, and then handed her a black envelope. “What’s this?” “Emergency money, new ID, travel itinerary, and a gift card for a new iPhone redeemable at any Apple Store worldwide.” “Travel itinerary?” Frankie asked. “Where are we going?” “Make like a librarian and check it out, Feisty.” Uncle Vlad gestured toward the roomful of people still waiting for their envelopes. “You’re not my only customer.” He and his ominous black sack moved on to Cleo. “Forget it, mister.” She clutched her bag to her chest. “I didn’t do anything — I wasn’t on TV!”
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Frankie rolled her eyes as she pushed her way to the front of the crowd. “A fleet of jets is currently en route,” continued Mr. D. “They will be in the usual spot in three hours. You have been guaranteed safe passage from one of my contacts at the FAA. Remain here until that time. No one is to return home. It’s not safe.” Murmurs swelled. “What’s going to happen to Salem when we leave?” asked one of the grown-ups. “Who’s going to run my restaurant?” “And my law practice?” “And the fire department?” “What about my students?” “And my patients?” The atmosphere quickly shifted from conflict to panic. These were high-powered people, beholden not only to one another but to the entire community. Did Mr. D really expect them to drop everything and leave? Who would take their places? How would society function without them? And what would become of those left behind? Forgetting her parents’ rule about not standing too close to the TV, Frankie approached the monitor and blurted, “Are you sure leaving is the best idea?” Mr. D leaned closer to the camera, its round eye reflected in his sunglasses. “Ms. Stein?” Frankie nodded. He leaned back in his white captain’s chair, his fingertips touching. “Yes, I’ve heard about you.”
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Frankie beamed. “Thanks.” A few of the grown-ups snickered. “Sorry, sir,” Viktor said, placing his hand on Frankie’s shoulder and pulling her back from the screen. “She was just born. What she’s trying to say is that some of us are tired of being intimidated. And we want to stay.” “Easy for you to say,” snapped Maddy Gorgon, Deuce’s mother. “Frankie wasn’t in the movie.” “Yes, she was,” Viveka insisted. “Just her voice,” argued Blue’s aunty Coral. “Funny how she conducted her interviews behind the scenes. It’s like she knew this would blow up in our faces.” Frankie felt as if a vacuum hose had been attached to her belly button, the dial set to composure suck. “We only had one camera!” she snapped. “I guess I could have sat on the subject’s lap, or we could have tied it to a pendulum, but —” Viktor touched Frankie on the shoulder in warning. “Enough,” he mumbled. “That was awesome,” Billy whispered in her other ear. Frankie was too worked up to smile. “What exactly are you accusing my daughter of?” Viveka asked. On the screen Mr. D was mumbling his lunch order to a waitress. “I think you know,” Coral said. “That one’s been nothing but trouble since the day she was born.” Frankie sparked. “Hold up a minute, Carol,” said Ram de Nile, seated comfortably in a club chair.
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“It’s Coral.” “My Cleo wasn’t in the movie either,” he continued. “Are you suggesting she had an ulterior motive too?” “Perhaps,” Coral pressed. “Then I have a suggestion for you,” Ram said as Cleo appeared by his side. “Maybe you need to control your niece.” “Rack off!” Blue shouted. “I am in control!” Lala giggled, and Mr. D turned back to face the group. “Sounds like it,” Ram scoffed. “Well, I’m not taking any chances,” Maddy chimed in. “Deuce and I are going back to Greece.” “What?” Cleo shouted. And then to her boyfriend, “Why didn’t you tell me?” “I just found out an hour ago,” he whined. “How long will he be gone?” Cleo asked Mrs. Gorgon. “As long as it takes,” Maddy said firmly. “Normies all over the world now know who we are. We need to be with family — they’re the only ones we can trust.” “That’s not true. There are a lot of normies out there who support us,” said Jackson, obviously thinking of Melody. “What about basketball?” Cleo asked. “The coach will kick Deuce off the team if he misses —” She began to cry. “What about me?” “Thanks to your smart choices, we’re staying right here,” Ram declared, even though that’s not what Cleo had meant. Coral waved her black envelope in the air. “Well, Blue is going back to her parents in Bells Beach.” At that, the sea creature broke into salty sobs. The dry scales
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on her cheeks glistened beneath her tears. Her aunt’s hushed promises of daily surf sessions and sunset swims along the Great Barrier Reef brought Blue momentary solace, but then the notion of leaving her friends and missing Clawdeen’s Sassy Sixteen tore her up all over again. “We’ll send video of the party,” Jackson said, trying to console her. “Excuse me?” said his mother. “We’re not staying.” “What? I can’t just leave. What about school? My art classes? And Melody?” “She’s a sweet girl, Jackson, but the least of my concerns right now.” Fights were breaking out all around Frankie. Parents and kids argued over their futures as Uncle Vlad pried phones from their hands. Lala was the only one still fixed on the screen. “Does this mean I’m coming to meet you on the yacht, Daddy?” Her voice sweetened with hope. “La, I’m running an international empire from this boat. It’s hardly a Disney cruise,” Mr. D explained, in a tone that implied this wasn’t the first time he’d said so. Lala looked down at the fuchsia ribbon laces in her combat boots. After a moment she lifted her moist eyes. “So I’m staying here? With Uncle Vlad?” Mr. D shook his head. “Why not?” she asked, burying her pale hands in the sleeves of her boyfriend cardigan. “I’m not like you. I don’t show up on camera. No one saw my face.”
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“They know where you live.” “But —” “You’ll have fun in Transylvania,” he insisted. “No.” Lala backed away from the screen. “Not the grim parents, please!” “Stop calling them that. You’ll be safe there. If you’re lucky, they might even teach you a thing or two about being responsible and taking charge.” Vlad rolled his eyes, taking the dig personally. “They drink meat shakes and stay inside all day!” “So, they’re a little old-school,” admitted Mr. D. “Dad, when I told Grumpa I wanted to be a veterinarian, he said I already was because I don’t eat meat. He doesn’t even know the difference between a veterinarian and a vegetarian!” “They raised me right, didn’t they?” Lala didn’t respond. “Hang in there,” Mr. D urged. “Pun intended,” Blue whisper-giggled. “Grandpa’s just teasing you. Give them a chance.” “But, Daddy —” On-screen, the waitress returned with a sizzling steak on a silver tray. “I’m afraid I have another meeting,” he announced. “Maddy, the phones.” Uncle Vlad emptied the black sack onto the floor. Deuce’s fashionably lithe mother stepped forward. “Eyes closed,” she called, gripping her black Diors. Everyone closed their eyes and she lifted the sunglasses. The room quickly cooled and then
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warmed as she lowered the lenses back over her eyes. “All clear,” she announced. Before them sat a stone statue made of their discarded cell phones, wallets, and I Ds — another obscure piece of art to clutter their underground hideaway. The latest tribute to their ongoing struggle. “Good luck to all of you,” Mr. D said over the sound of sobs. “And remember, hide with pride.” “Hide with pride,” everyone muttered back. Everyone but the Steins. The screen went black, and the monitor ascended toward the ceiling. From across the room, Aunty Coral, who was still consoling Blue, fired a round of hate squints at the Steins. “We should probably get going,” Viktor said, placing a protective arm around Frankie’s shoulders. Frankie found it hard to believe her parents were seriously serious about staying. “So that’s it? We’re just heading back to Radcliffe?” Viveka knelt down and took her daughter’s hand. “That’s it,” her violet eyes steady and sure. “We’ve been doing it our way for centuries, and it hasn’t gotten us very far. So now we’ll try it your way.” “My way?” Frankie sparked and then pulled back her hand. Imagining herself the leader of a successful revolution felt more uplifting than underwire. But spoken aloud, those words were heavy, weighted down with responsibility and consequence. And after her many failed attempts as a freedom fighter, she ques-
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tioned her ability to carry that burden alone. “It’s not like I have a plan or anything.” “Good.” Viktor snickered, obviously thinking of her track record too. “Because right now all we need to do is stay put and stay safe. Our goal is to continue living our lives. Business as usual. That’s it. Nothing else. Not yet. No plots, no plans, no schemes. Not until we know what and whom we’re dealing with. Got it?” “Got it,” Frankie agreed, even though she didn’t. Not completely. But she would. As soon as she found Brett at school on Monday and asked — no, demanded — that he cop to his role in this mess. Then, once she’d dealt with him accordingly, she’d agree to her father’s rule. Amid tearful good-byes and a few vengeful glances, Viktor led his family toward the old wooden door. Along the way Frankie and Viveka broke off to hug friends and wish them well. “You’re really staying?” asked Ms. J, reaching under her thick black glasses and dabbing the corner of her eye with a balled‑up tissue. “We are,” Viveka said, grinning at Frankie. Frankie grinned back. “I wish Jackson and I could, but —” “With all due respect, Viv,” said Maddy Gorgon, cutting Ms. J off. “Do you really think staying is in the best interest of your daughter?” “Absolutely,” Viveka said, her certainty reflected in the lenses of Maddy’s Diors. “It was my idea,” Frankie said, rushing to her mother’s defense.
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“We’ve learned a lot from her over the last few months.” Viveka beamed at her daughter. “Our kids are clever. No question about that.” Maddy cupped the back of her yellow-and-green head scarf. “But in times like these, I think it’s wise to let the grown-ups do the teaching.” “We’re teaching her about life,” said Viveka. And then to Frankie she added, “And she’s teaching us about living.” “Well then,” said Maddy with a caustic grin. “Let’s hope she knows what she’s doing.” Ms. J sniffed. “You’d better take good care of yourselves. We want you here in one piece in case we come back.” In case? Frankie had never considered that these people might be gone for good. She had been too consumed with her heartache. Too preoccupied with confronting Brett. Too fixated on her parents’ voltage decision to stay. Ashamed by her thoughtlessness, Frankie adjusted her inner empathy dial and tuned in to the frequency of the room. Sorrow hovered, gray and oppressive as Salem fog. Parents had formed clusters, discussing their barely baked plans in hushed tones. Jackson sat in a club chair, leaning forward as if trying not to puke. Lala and Blue giggle-sobbed as they recorded video messages on each other’s phones. Cleo’s gold- wrapped arms encircled Deuce. Soaked false lashes dangled from her eyes like branches trapped at the mouth of a waterfall. If tear salt could calcify, it would have hung from her lids like stalactites. Could this really be good-bye forever? Frankie couldn’t imagine school without these people. And she couldn’t imagine them without each other. Now, more than
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ever, she was determined to make things right. To be the one associated with uniting instead of dividing. To bring meaning to her life and to feel worthy of being called “Daddy’s perfect little girl.” She owed it to her friends, her parents, and her future. Like Martin Luther King Jr., Frankie dreamed of living in a nation where people would not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character. The sooner she realized that dream, the sooner she could get started on Katy Perry’s and live the teenage one.
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CHAPTER THREE
UNDER THE INFLUENCE
The front door of the Carver house blew open with urgency. Melody lifted her throbbing head off the kitchen table and braced herself for a follow‑up slam that never came. “Hullo?” her older sister, Candace, called out, spitting a pistachio shell across the table at Melody. No one answered. The girls exchanged a terrified glance that seemed to ask, Are we about to be taken into custody? Questioned for our involve‑ ment in “The Ghoul Next Door”? Kidnapped and tortured until we reveal the RADs’ hiding places? If only they knew. “We have fully loaded snipers, you know!” Candace added. Melody rolled her eyes. “The sniper is the shooter, not the weapon,” she whispered. Candace shrugged in her typical I‑should-get-points-for-e ven-
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k nowing-t hat-w ord-b ecause-perfectly-s ymmetrical-blonds- like‑me‑aren’t‑expected‑to‑and‑I‑did sort of way. “Where is she?” cried the intruder. The familiar high-heeled stabs of Tory Burch hiking boots pocking the wood floors put them at ease. “Hi, Mom . . .” Candace muttered, cracking into another pistachio. Melody hit redial on her cell phone for what felt like the zillionth time that night. Once again it went straight to voice mail. She hung up. “I’m telling you, something isn’t right with Jackson.” Glory Carver appeared in the doorway of the woodsy kitchen. Her petite frame was wrapped in an unassuming black trench coat, allowing her auburn curls to take center stage. “Where’s your father? He should have been home hours ago.” Melody shrugged. “I dunno.” “Oh well, I can’t wait another minute. Let’s hear it,” Glory insisted, rubbing her hands together anxiously. Melody’s stomach dipped. There was nothing about this nightmare she wanted to share, especially with her. “Come on, I didn’t race home from book club to be stared at. Go!” “Aren’t you going to close the front door?” Melody asked, unable to look her mother in the eye. “Really? The door?” Glory untied her trench and joined her daughters at the table — a glass oval that mocked their rustic home with its I’m‑from-Beverly-Hills shine. “That’s all?” “Yup.” Melody got up and yanked open the wood-paneled fridge. The cool air was soothing.
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“Why so morose?” Glory asked. Melody rolled her eyes at the organic fat-free milk. “Mom, I think the expression is sow more oats,” Candace said, enunciating carefully. “And I agree. She is totally obsessing over Jackson. Sister needs to date.” “Actually,” Glory said, giggling, “I meant morose.” She fixed her green eyes on Melody. “I don’t understand.” “Lots of reasons.” Melody shut the fridge and stomped off to slam the front door shut. Could it be that my friends have become the target of a massive monster hunt? she wanted to yell. Or that my boyfriend hasn’t picked up his phone in three hours? Oh no, wait! I know why I’m being so morose. It’s because Cleo’s butler, Manu, gave me reason to believe that you’re not my real mother! But genealogy was not the priority. Finding Jackson was. So Melody walked back into the kitchen without saying a word. “I just assumed you’d be celebrating, that’s all,” Glory explained with a self-pitying shrug. “Celebrating?” Melody asked, confused. “Your sister texted the good news from the Teen Vogue shoot.” “Good news?” “When I heard you got your singing voice back, I nearly jumped out of my J Brands!” Candace cracked another pistachio. “Wait.” Melody leaned against the counter and stuffed her hands into the pockets of her hoodie. “You’re talking about my singing?” Glory nodded. “Of course. I want to hear it.” She slapped her hands together as if in prayer and mouthed, Ohpleaseohpleaseoh‑
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please. “Do ‘Defying Gravity’ from Wicked. Just like you used to. That was always my favorite.” Candace burst out laughing. “Mom, I’m not in the mood right —” “Babe!” Beau called as he entered the house. “You’re never going to believe it!” “I know! She got her voice back!” Glory raced to the foyer to greet him. “It’s eight thirty; where have you been?” “The phones at the office have been ringing like mad.” Perma-tanned and dressed in an Armani suit, the age-defying plastic surgeon entered the kitchen. Loosening his tie, he kissed each of his daughters on the forehead and then lowered himself into one of the black open-hand-shaped chairs around the table. Glory popped his favorite Lean Cuisine meal — Baja-style quesadilla — into the microwave and set the timer. “Why didn’t you let the service answer?” “Morbid curiosity,” he said. “The calls were from teenagers asking if we could give them fangs, horns, tails . . . you name it. They wanted to look like . . .” He snapped his fingers, trying to remember the word, then gave up and moved on. “Anyway, at first Dr. Kramer and I thought it was just another practical joke, like the one those Merston kids pulled on that poor guy Brett. But then we heard about the show on Channel Two and —” “NUDI power!” Candace shouted, punching her fist in the air. “What’s a NUDI?” Glory asked over the beeping microwave. “Normies Uncool with Discriminating Idiots,” Candace explained. “Melly, it’s working. Normies want to be RADs! Our
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message is totally getting through!” She began texting Billy. “Man, this is gonna look great on my college applications.” “That’s it! That’s what they’re called — R ADs!” Beau said, fanning his steaming quesadilla. “And from what I understand, some of them live on our street!” He sipped some wine that had appeared in front of him thanks to Glory. “Dr. Kramer is dying to spot one, so I invited his family over for dinner on Sunday night. They have two kids your age, so —” “So what? You’re starting up a side business now?” Melody snapped. “Come see the weirdos on Radcliffe Way! Dinner included in the cost of admission! Free hunting nets while supplies last.” “What’s wrong with you?” he asked. “So morose,” Candace explained. “But she’s right, Dad. They’re not circus freaks.” Melody nodded in agreement. “I never said they were —” “By the way, are the Kramer kids boys or girls?” “Girls.” “Candace out.” “Not a chance,” Beau insisted. “Attendance is mandatory.” “Beau, why did you invite people over the night before our vacation?” Glory asked, filling his wineglass. “We have to leave the next morning.” “It was the only night they could do it.” “Pathetic,” Melody mumbled under her breath. Were her parents really being this flip in the face of something so serious? Did the bad news have to happen to them to make them care? Wasn’t it enough that it was happening to their neighbors?
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“But we’re going to be packing and —” “Don’t worry,” Beau said, lifting his glass by the stem. “I’ll get takeout from the Hideout Inn, you’ll put it in a Pyrex dish, and they’ll think you made it.” Glory smiled and slapped her husband five. “I knew there was a reason I married you.” Do you actually hear yourselves? Melody was about to shout. But her iPhone started to ring. Jackson! Hurrying to pick it up, she couldn’t help wondering how involved she would be in “the cause” if her boyfriend weren’t a victim. Or how concerned Candace would be if she didn’t think “NUDI Leader” would look good on her college applications. But Melody dismissed those thoughts, wanting to believe she’d care more than her parents. A lot more. “Hello?” she blurted, even though the call was coming from a blocked number. A voice whispered on the other end. “Melody, it’s Sydney Jekyll. I mean, Ms. J. Your biology teacher. Jackson’s mother.” Melody’s mouth dried. “Is he okay?” “He’s fine.” Ms. J sighed. “He just refuses to leave without saying good-bye.” “Leave? Where is he going?” A cyclone of nausea tore through her. Who is it? mouthed Glory. Melody dismissed her with a wave and hurried for the privacy of the living room. “Can you be at Crystal’s Coffee across from McNary Field Airport in forty minutes?”
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“Uh‑huh,” Melody managed. “Good. See you soon. And make sure no one is following you.” The line went dead.
Melody checked the side-view mirror one last time — nothing but darkness and streetlights behind them. “This is it,” she whispered, spotting the only three illuminated letters on the coffee shop’s marquee. “Left at the ‘fee.’ ” “Ha!” Candace said to the decrepit sign. “You think Frankie could make that light back up with her hands?” Melody didn’t know. And she wasn’t in the mood to guess. Candace flicked on her turn signal. “Let’s do this!” As she turned the wheel sharply, the BMW screeched into the Crystal’s Coffee lot. She parked next to a Tacoma with a window made of duct tape and cardboard. Melody slumped down in her seat. “At least turn off the lights.” “Okay, you really need to relax,” Candace snapped, obviously tired of Melody’s nonstop paranoia. “Tell that to your outfit.” Candace looked down and giggled. Dressed in Glory’s camouflage bird-watching vest and trucker hat with binoculars around her neck and a warbling whistle poking out of the pocket, she was hard to take seriously. But her sister was right. Candace did need to relax. At least about being followed. “I don’t see their car. Do you think we missed them? Or what
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if —” Melody couldn’t bear to finish the thought. It was one thing if Jackson had left, quite another if he’d been taken. “Haven’t you ever had to ditch a stalker?” Melody shook her head. “People who are in hiding don’t park in plain view.” “True,” Melody admitted, eyeing the dilapidated roadside diner. The shutters were drawn. “What would you do? You know, if your boyfriend was leaving?” Saying the words out loud made her insides squinch up, like being zipped into a jacket several sizes too small. “And I wasn’t already bored with him?” “Obviously!” “Hmmm.” Candace tapped her chin. “That’s never actually happened. But I guess I’d make him stay.” “How?” “That’s your job.” Candace leaned over and patted Melody on the shoulder. “Mine is to keep watch on stakeout duty.” She pulled the bird whistle from her pocket and blew. It sounded like a woodpecker that had swallowed a squeaky toy. “When you hear that, it means ‘get out as fast as you can.’ Now go before he leaves.” Leaves? Melody’s chest zipped even tighter. Rigged with bells, the door chimed as she opened it. Not even the sweet coffee-and-doughnuts smell could stir her appetite. The Formica counter, silver-and-black stools, and five red booths were predictable. The score of La Bohème playing on the jukebox, not so much. Was this really the last place she and Jackson would ever kiss? As she stepped inside, Melody flipped her hoodie over her head. It was the closest thing she had to a hug.
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There were only two customers: a balding man in a corduroy blazer hunched over a plate of spaghetti, and a black-haired boy immersed in a copy of Hot Rod magazine. He had a scar across his cheek and wore a T‑shirt that said hello, my name is rick. Melody’s forehead began to panic-sweat. Jackson was already gone. “Table for one?” asked the overbleached blond waitress with a snap of her minty gum. Her age-spotted hands hovered over a stack of menus. “Ummm,” Melody stalled. Now what? Go back to the car? Wait? Show the waitress a picture of Jackson? Or maybe D.J.? Ask if she saw one of them? Melody was bombarded with options, yet none of them seemed worth considering. He was supposed to be here! “Actually, I’m meeting —” Ping! Melody quickly checked her phone. TO:
MC
oct 14, 9:44 PM
BLOCKED: SIT WITH RICK.
She lifted her gaze. Rick lowered his magazine and tried to smile, but a quivering pout was the best he could do. Yes! “I’m going to sit with that guy.” The waitress winked in an I‑would-too‑if‑I‑were-twenty- years-younger sort of way. Up close, there was no mistaking the crackle in Jackson’s hazel
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eyes. But the black hair? The scar? The Hot Rod mag? And where were his glasses? “Wait,” Melody said, sliding into the booth beside him. There were two plates on the table: an untouched slice of Oreo cookie cheesecake and a side salad. “D.J.?” “No, it’s me,” Jackson said, managing to conceal everything but his kind voice. “I’m in disguise mode. Do I make a good bad boy?” “The waitress thought you were cute.” Melody tried to sound upbeat. She reached for his hand and held it to her face, wanting — no, needing — to inhale the familiar waxy scent of his pastel crayon–smudged fingers. But the colors had been replaced with harsh black stains. Hair dye. And now they smelled like public-bathroom soap and coarse paper towels. “How was the Teen Vogue shoot?” he asked, as if it were any other day. Melody tried pretending that it was. “Cleo and I kind of bonded, so that was good. I got my singing voice back and performed for three camels named Niles, Humphrey, and Luxor. And this guy, Manu, gave me very good reason to think some woman named Marina is my real mother.” Jackson pushed the cheesecake aside. “I find that hard to believe.” “Which part?” “All of it.” “Believe it,” Melody said, before sharing the details. “Did you ask your mom about it?” Jackson asked. Melody shook her head.
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“Why not?” “Because I was too busy wondering if you were alive.” Which was mostly true. But there was a part of Melody that wasn’t ready for that conversation. The part that didn’t know how she’d react if Manu was right. Tears rushed to her eyes. “You’re not really leaving, are you?” Nodding, Jackson hooked the hood of her sweatshirt and pulled her close. Their foreheads touched. “Tonight,” he mumbled. “London. On a private jet. I don’t know for how long.” He paused. “I hate this.” The tears began to fall. Hot and fast, they slithered down Melody’s cheeks and off her jaw. She pulled back and looked Jackson in the eye. “Can’t you tell your mom you want to stay? You could wear this disguise. Switch schools. No one would ever know.” “I tried. A hundred times, at least. She told me not to bring it up anymore. I promised I wouldn’t if she promised to get you here.” “Well, try again,” Melody insisted, wondering if that’s what Candace had meant by make him stay. “Fine,” he agreed, with surprising ease. He lifted his eyes to meet hers. “One condition: You have to stick around while I talk to her.” “Why?” Jackson half-smiled. “Because if she has as much trouble saying no to you as I do, then the flight is as good as canceled.” Riding the updraft of possibility, Melody leaned in to kiss him. “What’s this about a canceled flight?” She quickly pulled away.
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Ms. J was hovering above them, her shiny black bob swinging across her jaw. Her signature matte red lipstick had been freshly applied. “Nothing,” Jackson assured her. “Everything is still on schedule.” “Good.” She slid across the open seat and looked at the wooden bowl of iceberg lettuce as if it were some kind of insult. “I know I promised you alone time, but one more second in that bathroom and I would have contracted the hantavirus.” Melody grinned like she completely understood. It was something she found herself doing often with her boyfriend’s‑ mom-slash-beyond-intellectual-biology-teacher. “Go ahead, ask her,” Jackson whispered, nudging Melody. “You,” she whispered back. “Ask me what?” Ms. J asked while signaling the waitress for the check. “This had better not be about staying, because —” “You can’t leave,” Melody blurted. Ms. J began blinking, as if genuinely interested in what Melody had to say. “Explain.” “Um, I just think that . . .” Melody stammered, the way she often did in class when called on for an answer she didn’t know. But she did know this answer. It was Ms. J’s willingness to hear it that she hadn’t expected. “You’re a teacher . . .” she began, thinking it best not to center her plea on broken teenage hearts. The woman was a scientist. A rational thinker. She would, therefore, require a rational argument. “And a role model. Not only for RADs, but for normies too.”
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Ms. J nodded in agreement. Melody could feel Jackson grinning beside her. “If you leave, it sends a message that when the going gets tough, the tough leave, and —” The waitress slid the check onto the table, but Ms. J’s focus remained fixed on Melody. “What about the safety of my son?” “Mom, I can —” Melody gripped his thigh, squeezing him silent. “Keep Jackson in this disguise. Send him to another school. Hide with pride. Isn’t that your motto? But you need to stay at Merston and be an advocate for the RADs who are still here.” Melody leaned across the table and whispered in Ms. J’s ear. “And show Jackson that his mother isn’t afraid to fight.” Ms. J pulled off her Woody A llen–esque glasses and rubbed her eyes. Jackson and Melody held hands under the table, their grip tightening with every passing second. Putting on her glasses, Ms. J turned to her son and said, “You would have to go into hiding.” “That’s fine.” “Which means no one, and I mean no one” — she paused to glare at Melody —“can know where you are.” “Fine,” they answered together. At least they’d be in the same time zone. Ms. J slapped down a black American Express credit card issued to someone named Rebecca Rose, peeled the protective plastic off a new iPhone, and then began texting. Jackson pulled his hand away. “What are you doing?”
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“Texting the flight crew about my vegan meal.” Melody’s heart sank. “But I thought —” Ms. J placed her phone on the paper place mat and met their eyes. “You thought what? That I would let a perfectly good tofu lasagna go to waste?” “Huh?” Melody asked. “I told them to put it in a to‑go box. We’ll have to swing by the tarmac so we can pick it up.” She pushed her salad aside. “I’m starving. And it’s going to be a long night.” Melody and Jackson exchanged a victorious hug while Ms. J signed the check. Make out for hours ranked number one on Melody’s what‑to‑do‑next list. Instead, she stuck to her word, wished them both luck, and hurried off to meet Candace. Nothing about the parking lot had changed, and yet everything about it looked different. The half-lit coffee sign suddenly seemed charming. The duct-taped car was no longer pathetic; it was a survivor. And Candace wasn’t mocking Melody’s paranoia with her bird-watching costume — she was being supportive. All because Jackson was staying. And regardless of the promise they had made to Ms. J, he would find a way to stay in touch. He always did.
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